:-NRLF 


ALVMNVS  BOOK  FVND 


MANY  CHILDREN 


BY 

MRS.  SCHUYLER  VAN  RENSSELAER 

WITH   DRAWINGS   BY 

FLORENCE  WYMAN  IVINS 


J'etais  la ;  cette  chose  nia<vint 

LA    FONTAINE 


THE  ATLANTIC   MONTHLY  PRESS 
1921 


Copyright,  1921  y  by 
Mariana  Qriswold  Pan  Rensselaer 


m 


D.  B.Updike,  The  zJWerrymount  <Press,  Bos  fan 


/"t'/x 


TO  MY  YOUNG  KINSFOLK 

WART  AND  LOUISA,  GEORGE  AND  JOHN 

AND  MY    FRIEND 

BARBARA 


468748 


For  permission  to  reprint  a  few  of  these  poems  the 
author  is  indebted  to  the  courtesy  of  the  editors  and 
publishers  of  St.  Nicholas  and  of  Harper's  Bazar 


CONTENTS 

The  Wind  3 

I  Wonder!  4 

The  New  Moon  5 

Families  6 

To  a  ^Picture  J 

Sun  and  Moon  8 

The  Typewriter  9 

The  Sparks  10 

Horse- Chestnuts  1 1 

72*  Nm,  <ZW/  12 

T^obin-Food  13 

7/k?  Shadow  14 

15 

17 

Bedtime  1 8 

6"^ri  in  Town  19 

Whispering  Pine  Tree  20 


CONTENTS 

The  Organ- Grinder  21 

<*JManners  22 

The  Schoolboy  23 

The  Cat  in  the  Cornfield  24 

Bobby's  Hunting-ground  25 

.  Voyage  on  the  Lawn  26 

City  Boy  27 

Stormy  Day  29 

Home  from  the  Country  30 

tying  to  Sleep  3 1 

The  Christmas  ^Present  32 

'Dolly's  Lullaby  33 

At  a  High  Window  34 

By  the  Shore  36 

The  ^Dragon-Fly  38 

The  Cave  by  the  Sea  39 

Snow  in  the  City  41 

Sad  Fancy  43 

'[  x  ] 


CONTENTS 

Harry  and  the  Indians  44 

Barbara's  Treasure-Ship  47 

^ose  and  her  'Brother  48 

The  Forest  of  the  Corn  49 

Joe-Pye  Weed  50 

zJMarys  Apple  Tree  52 

The  Sick  Child  54 

What  Katherine  Wished  For  57 

What  Nora  Imagined  58 

The  ^Procession  59 

<^Autumn  Leaves  61 

Spring  In  the  City  63 

The  All-Tear  Crop  64 

The  Surf  66 

Helena^s  Book  67 

Thunder-Storm  at  Night  70 

ing)  after  the  Storm  71 

The  Violin  72 

[xi  ] 


CONTENTS 

The  Lighthouse  Star  74 

Summer  Dream  75 

the  End  of  the  Summer  76 

The  Hunter  of  the  Skies  78 

When  Tan  Plays  his  Pipes  80 

The  Unseen  Things  82 


MANY  CHILDREN 

THE  SMALLEST  ONES  BEGIN  THE  BOOK, 
THEN,  AS  YOU  TURN  THE  PAGE 

OR  DOWN  THE  LIST  OF  TITLES  LOOK, 
THEY  GROW  AND  GROW  IN  AGE 


THE  WIND 

OH,  I  wish  I  knew! 
What  does  the  wind  do, 
Where  does  the  wind  go, 
Mother,  when  it  does  not  blow  ? 

In  the  leafy  trees 
Does  a  little  breeze 
Live  till  it  can  grow 
Strong  and  loud  enough  to  blow? 

Then  does  it  come  out, 
Blow  and  rush  and  shout, 
Till  it  has  to  stay, 
Weary,  weary,  far  away  ? 

Oh,  it  must  be  so, 
For  when  no  winds  blow, 
Often  in  the  trees 
I  can  see  that  little  breeze! 


[3] 


/  WONDER! 

I  WONDER  if  the  stars  are  fire, 

Or  if  the  stars  are  gold, 
And  if  a  little  one  should  drop, 

'T would  burn  my  hand  to  hold? 


t   4] 


THE  NEW 

DEAR  little  moon  that  came  last  night,  I  thought 

that  you  would  be 
All  hurt  and   spoiled  —  I  saw  you  caught  and 

tangled  in  a  tree. 

But  here  you   are  again  and  so  you  safely  got 

away. 
I  hope  you  're  learning,  little  moon,  out  in  the 

sky  to  stay! 


[  5  ] 


FAMILIES 

OH,  darling  birdies  in  the  nest,  your  beaks  are  big 

and  wide; 
I  should  not  think  one  mother  could  for  all  of  you 

provide. 

But  little  fishes  are  much  worse,  for,  father  said 

to-day, 
A  thousand  eggs  or  more  a  fish  at  anytime  can  lay. 

How  does  she  feed  her  children  when  they  come 

out  from  the  eggs, 
And  swim  around  her  faster  far  than  if  they  ran 

on  legs? 


[ 


ro  A  TICTURS 

You  lovely  lady  in  my  book, 
Who  have  so  very  sad  a  look, 
As  though  a  tear  were  in  your  eye, 
Remember,  if  you  want  to  cry, 
Instead  of  smiling  as  you  should, 
No  lady's  child  is  always  good! 


[7] 


SUN  <AND 

EVERY,  every  day, 
Just  in  the  same  way, 
The  round  sun  comes  back 
To  begin  his  shining  track. 

Why,  then,  must  the  night 
Get  its  silvery  light 
From  a  moon  that's  new 
Every  other  week  or  two? 


TH8 
IT  talks  and  talks  but  not  the  words 

It  writes  so  clear  and  black; 
It  writes  my  name,  T-o-m,  Tom, 

But  says  just  Tick,  tick,  tack. 

It 's  quite  unlike  the  telephone, 
Which  does  not  chatter  so, 

But  kindly  calls  for  us  to  hear 
The  things  we  need  to  know. 


THE  SPARKS 

Now  the  fire  is  getting  low, 
Come,  lay  the  paper  down 

Where  it  will  not  blaze  away 
But  shrivel  black  and  brown. 

Watch  now  for  the  soldier-boys 
As  slow  the  edges  burn  : 

Regiments  of  shining  sparks- 
See  them  march  and  turn. 

See  the  mountain  that  they  climb! 

How  fast  they  wheel  and  run ! 
How  they  hurry!  Out  they  go! 

The  battle-play  is  done. 


HORSE-CHESTNUTS 

HURRY,  chestnuts,  smooth  and  brown, 
Crack  your  burrs  and  tumble  down 
In  the  grass,  and  roll  about 
Till  I  come  to  hunt  you  out! 

As  you  are  not  soft  and  sweet, 
Like  the  chestnuts  good  to  eat, 
You  are  fit,  grown  people  say, 
Only  to  be  thrown  away. 

But  you're  handsomer  at  least, 
And  I  'm  glad  that  man  and  beast, 
Finding  food  like  meat  and  oats, 
Leave  you  in  your  satiny  coats. 

I  will  fill  a  box  with  you, 
Keep  you  all  the  winter  through, 
And  discover,  by  and  by, 
Games  to  play  at,  you  and  I. 


rns  NEW  <DOLL 

MY  Aunty  says,  "You  never  had 
So  fine  a  dolly;  you  '11  be  glad 
To  give  the  other  one  away 
To  some  poor  little  girl  some  day." 

O  Aunty,  would  you  part  with  me 
If  you  a  finer  child  should  see, 
With  longer  hair  and  better  dressed  ? 
Could  you  pretend  to  love  her  best  ? 


ROBIN-FOOD 

I  ALWAYS  thought  the  robins  were 
Good  parents,  kind  and  sweet, 

Until  I  saw  one  give  its  young 
A  worm  instead  of  meat. 

Or  can  it  be  they  really  like  — 
The  old  and  young  ones,  too — 

Things  that  we  never  could  endure 
If  fed  to  me  and  you? 

Perhaps  the  little  robins  think 
Our  parents  are  not  good, 

Because  they  give  us  bread  and  cake 
Instead  of  robin-food. 


THE  SHADOW 

THE  shadow  of  a  bird  upon  the  grass! 
Watch,  or  you  will  not  see  it  pass  — 
So  sudden,  oh,  so  small  and  swift  and  light, 
The  shadow  of  a  swallow's  flight! 

The  little  blades  of  grass  cannot,  as  I, 
See  what  is  happening  in  the  sky, 
But  when  the  shadow  touches  them  they  say, 
The  swallows  are  a- wing  to-day! 


.4] 


TOPPT  'BOATS 

POPPY  petals  —  soft  as  silk, 
Red  as  cherries,  white  as  milk. 

Shake  the  bowl  and  see  them  drop 
On  the  polished  table-top. 

That 's  the  water  where  they  float, 
Red  and  white  ones,  each  a  boat. 

Now  we  blow  them,  softly  blow  — 
Slipping,  dipping,  see  them  go ! 


rns  FLTINQ  SEEDS 

WHITE  and  tiny,  here  and  there, 
Floating  softly  in  the  air — 

Oh,  what  are  they  ?  Seeds,  you  say, 
Winged  to  travel  far  away. 

But  they  seem,  in  the  sunshine, 
Feathers  very  small  and  fine; 

And  though  fairies,  as  we  know, 
Never  in  the  daytime  show, 

They  may  let  us  see,  perhaps, 
Just  the  feathers  in  their  caps. 


[   -7] 


JIT  'BEDriMB 

,  my  darting!  —  It  was  mother  singing 

low, 
And  I  heard  the  little  fishes  through  the  water 

come  and  goj 

I  saw  the  little  tree-leaves  fluttering  in  the  sky, 
Green  amid  the  blueness  where  the  little  clouds 

go  by. 

There  are  many,  many  darlings  for  the  mothers 

far  and  wide, 
But  my  only  mother  sings  to  me,  to  me  and  none 

beside; 
I  shut  my  eyes  to  hear  her  and  she  sings  me  far 

away, 
I  open  them  to  see  her  and  I  know  what  she 

will  say: 


'Darling)  my  darling!  —  I  was  down  among  the 

grass, 
The  clover-blossoms  nodded,  so  the  daisies  let 

me  pass; 
I  was  up  among  the  tree-tops  and  flying  with  a 

bird, 
But  when  he  sang  his  song  for  me,  't  was  Darling 

that  I  heard. 


THS  STARS 

AT  the  seashore  last  week  they  showed  me  the 

stars, 

And  taught  me  the  names  of  a  few, 
And  the  patterns  they  made,  with  their  spangles 

of  gold, 
On  a  sky  that  was  darker  than  blue. 


[   -9] 


When  we  strolled  after  supper  to-night  in  the 

Park, 

As  I  sometimes  may  do  for  a  treat, 
The  very  same  stars  —  oh,  I  jumped  with  sur 
prise — 
Shone  high  over  housetop  and  street. 

The  Dipper  was  there,  and  the  zigzag-y  Chair, 
And  the  Star  of  the  North  looking  down. 

—  At  the  seashore,  I  wonder,  what  shines  in  the 

place 
Of  the  stars  that  have  moved  into  town? 


THS  tTHISPERINq  TINS  TREE 

OLD  pine,  you  whisper  like  the  waves, 

Yet  you  have  only  seen 
The  other  trees  and  flowers  and  hills, 

And  meadows  grassy  green. 

Your  brothers  near  the  sea  have  heard 
The  whispering,  I  suppose, 

And  taught  their  neighbors,  and  so  on, 
Till  every  pine  tree  knows. 


THS  ORGAN-GRINDER 

ALL  day  long  his  food  he  earns 
Dragging  his  heavy  cart  about, 
And,  hard  at  work,  the  crank  he  turns 
To  let  the  music  out. 

We  pull  wagons  in  our  play, 
And  in  our  play  we  sing  and  drum, 
So  he  for  pleasure,  I  dare  say, 
Spells  words  and  does  a  sum. 


(MANNERS 

I  HAVE  an  uncle  I  don't  like, 

An  aunt  I  cannot  bear: 
She  chucks  me  underneath  the  chin, 

He  ruffles  up  my  hair. 

Another  uncle  I  adore, 

Another  aunty,  too: 
She  shakes  me  kindly  by  the  hand, 

He  says,  How  do  you  do? 


THE  SCHOOLBOY 

1  AM  not  one  who  hates  his  school — 

I  like  too  many  boys, 
And  even  the  teachers,  as  a  rule, 

Are  persons  one  enjoys. 

But  certain  people  make  me  hate 

To  talk  of  school,  for  they 
Behave  as  though  they  must  some  great 

Astonishment  display; 

Or  call  me  "little  man,"  or  try 

To  make  it  seem  a  jest 
To  ask  if  scholars  big  as  I 

Know  Greek  or  Latin  best. 

I  am  not  big,  but  I  can  go 
To  school  and  do  my  task — 

And  be  polite  to  people  who 
Unpleasant  questions  ask. 


THE  CAT  I&^THE  CORNFIELD 

JUST  now  I  met  it  once  again, 
The  lion  without  cage  or  chain, 
Prowling  about  in  a  thick  wood, 
Growling  and  looking  for  its  food. 
Yellow  it  was,  as  it  should  be: 
It  stood  and  gazed  and  gazed  at  me, 
Arched  its  back,  opened  its  jaws, 
And  stretched  its  many  pointed  claws, 
With  just  the  very  dangerous  look 
Of  lions  in  my  Daniel  book. 
It  tried  to  catch  me,  but  I  could 
Escape  from  it  in  the  thick  wood, 
Or  jump  and  shout  and  make  it  quail, 
Crouch  and  crawl  and  lash  its  tail! 

[**] 


'BOBBrs  HUNTINq-GROUND 

As  orchards  are  for  growing  fruit, 
You  may  not  guess  how  well  they  suit 
A  hunter  of  big  game  who  cares 
To  meet  with  Indians  most,  or  bears. 

With  trusty  gun,  high  in  a  tree 
I  watch,  a  furry  beast  to  see, 
While  on  a  branch  I  sit  astride 
And  far  and  fast  I  ride  and  ride. 

Or  under  the  stone  wall  I  lie 
Amid  the  goldenrod,  to  spy 
If  stealthy  comes  a  brave  or  two, 
And  plan  what  then  I  ought  to  do. 

And  if  no  braves  or  bears  appear, 
That  proves  they  keep  away  through  fear; 
They  hear  my  horse,  they  dread  my  gun, 
And  turn  their  backs  and  run  and  run ! 


e/f  VOTAQE  ON  THE 

WATCH  now  a  bold  discoverer, 
Just  setting  sail  from  Spain 
To  find  America  and  bring 
Great  treasures  home  again. 

My  goat-cart  is  my  gallant  ship, 
And  if  it  sometimes  goes 
Too  fast,  perhaps,  it  is  because 
A  stormy  tempest  blows. 

But  have  no  fear,  though  shrubs 

and  trees 

Are  islands  hard  to  pass, 
For  people  come  alive  again 
Who  only  drown  in  grass! 


JL  CITY  <BOY 

I  AM  a  little  city  child, 

And  glad  that  it  is  so; 
The  country  is  too  white  and  wild 
In  winter  with  the  snow. 

I  love  it  in  the  summer  days, 
But  when  the  trees  are  brown 

And  chilly  winds  blow  many  ways, 
I  hurry  back  to  town. 

My  home  is  waiting,  full  of  toys, 
The  streets  are  full  of  men, 

And  I  can  use  with  other  boys 
My  roller-skates  again. 

Here,  if  the  weather  storms  and  snows, 

I  cannot  come  to  harm; 
It  's  very  different,  goodness  knows, 

With  children  on  a  farm. 


e/f  STORMY  <DAT 

I  LOOK  out  through  the  window,  where 
The  world  is  wet  and  wild, 

And  fancy  I  am  wandering  there, 
A  lost  and  dripping  child. 

That  makes  it  pleasant  when  I  turn 

And  find  I  am  myself, 
With  food  to  eat,  and  wood  to  burn, 

And  toys  upon  the  shelf. 

Or  else,  a  shipwrecked  sailor-boy, 

Upon  the  rug  I  lie, 
And  thankfully  the  fire  enjoy 

Until  my  clothes  are  dry. 

Or  sometimes,  when  a  deluge  falls, 

At  Noah's  Ark  I  play, 
And  being  all  the  animals 

Gives  me  a  busy  day. 


HO  MS  FROM  THB  COUNTRY 

I  'M  back  in  town,  and  I  rejoice 

To  lie  in  bed  awake, 
While  passing  feet  a  pleasant  noise 

Upon  the  pavement  make. 

The  whistles  greet  me  from  afar 

Of  boats  upon  the  bay, 
The  bell  of  an  electric  car, 

An  auto's  sudden  bray. 

Then  sounds  and  signals  as  I  lie 
Grow  dreamy  in  my  head; 

But  if  the  firemen  thunder  by, 
How  can  I  stay  in  bed  ? 

[    JO] 


qoiNq  ro  SLEEP 

TUCKED  in  bed  but  wide  awake, 
A  little  journey  then  I  take, 
Here  and  there  where  I  have  been, 
To  see  the  things  that  I  have  seen: 

Pleasant  things  in  summer  places, 
And  streets  of  people,  funny  faces, 
Fountains  dancing  in  the  Square 
To  yellow  tulips  planted  there. 

Though  my  eyes  are  shut  up  tight, 
And  in  my  room  is  darkest  night, 
Toy-shop  windows  I  can  see, 
The  swing  beneath  the  maple  tree, 

Towers  we  built  upon  the  beach 
Beyond  the  creeping  water's  reach, 
Flowers  in  grandma's  garden  growing, 
The  flag  above  the  schoolhouse  blowing. 

Clear  at  first,  at  last  they  seem 
All  mixed  and  misty  like  a  dream; 
Sudden  comes  the  morning  light  — 
I  must  have  been  awake  all  night ! 


[   3-   ] 


THE  CHRISTMAS  PRESENT 

MY  little  box  of  shining  blue, 
I  hardly  can  believe  that  you, 
With  feet  of  gold  so  bright  and  fine — 
That  you  are  really,  truly  mine. 

My  father  said,  while  mother  smiled, 
You  were  no  present  for  a  child  - 
Much  more,  of  course,  I  would  enjoy 
A  picture-book  or  else  a  toy. 

O  little  box  of  gold  and  blue, 
And  lined  inside  with  satin,  too, 
How  strange  it  is  they  do  not  know 
The  reasons  why  I  love  you  so: 

Because  you  're  pretty  and,  still  more, 

Because  I  never  had  before, 

Or  dreamed  that  Christmas-time  could 

bring, 
For  me,  for  me,  a  grown-up  thing  ! 


[3*1 


<DOLLTS  LULLABY 

SING,  I  must  sing  to  my  dear  dolly,  sing, 
And  tell  her  the  stories  of  everything. 
She  is  tired  of  my  singing  just  "  Sleep,  dear,sleep," 
She  is  tired  of  the  songs  about  Little  Bo-Peep, 
Jack  Horner,  Miss  Muffet,  and  all  of  the  rhymes 
I  have  sung  from  my  picture-book  dozens  of  times. 
Sing,  I  must  sing  to  my  dear  dolly,  sing, 
And  tell  her  the  stories  of  everything! 

Slumber,  my  dolly!  I  '11  tell  you  to-night 
Of  trees  that  are  blossoming  rosy  and  white; 
Of  brooks  where  the  ripples  of  brown  water  run 
And  tinkle  like  music  and  shine  in  the  sun; 
Of  nests  where  the  baby  birds  sit  in  a  heap, 
And  the  mother  sits  over  them  when  they  're 

asleep. 

Sing,  I  must  sing  to  my  dear  dolly,  sing, 
And  tell  her  the  stories  of  everything! 

The  summer  is  green  and  the  winter  is  white, 
There  is  sunshine  by  day  and  star-shine  at  night; 
The  stars  are  so  many  it  cannot  be  told, 
The  moon  is  of  silver  but  they  are  of  gold; 


[33] 


The  clouds  are  like  ships  and  the  sky  like  the  sea, 
Only  turned  upside  down  over  dolly  and  me. 
Sing,  I  must  sing  to  my  dear  dolly,  sing, 
But  I  never  can  tell  her  of  everything ! 


AT  A  HIGH  WINDOW 

HERE  is  my  lofty  watch-tower  where 
I  see  the  things  of  earth  and  air. 

I  see  the  clouds  that  bring  the  rain, 
Their  shadows  on  the  fields  of  grain, 

The  cloaks  they  lay  upon  the  breast 
Of  hill  and  mountain  at  the  west. 

Beyond  the  hills  I  see  the  sun 

Grow  large  and  red  when  day  is  done; 

The  moon  I  see,  quite  small  and  new, 
A  curving  line  upon  the  blue; 

And  down  the  valley,  now  and  again, 
Far,  far  away,  a  railroad  train, 


[   34] 


By  day  a  trail  of  smoke,  by  night 
A  little  moving  line  of  light. 

Far,  far  away,  I  think,  in  it 
How  many  men  and  women  sit, 

All  rushing  on  and  on  to  come 

To  their  own  town  and  happy  home, 

Where  they  may  like  some  day  to  see 
A  train  go  by  that 's  carrying  me. 


[35] 


Sr  THE  SHORS 

WHEN  tired  of  building  forts  and  walls  and  ditch 
ing  them  about, 

I  sit  upon  the  sand  and  watch  the  tide  flow  in  or 
out. 

And  always  at  the  edge  are  waves,  always,  though 

there  may  be 
No  ripples  on  the  water  near,  no  tossing  out  at 

sea. 

They  may  be  little,  little  waves,  perhaps  an  inch 

in  height, 
Yet  they  can  rise  and  curl  and  fall  and  plash  as  big 

ones  might. 


Just  as  one  dies  another  comes,  and  always  more 

and  more, 
While  ever  runs  their  whispering  voice  along  the 

quiet  shore. 

At  night  when  all  is  hid  away  in  darkness,  still  I 

know 
They  curl  and  break,  and  up  and  down  their  little 

distance  go. 

And  even  in  winter,  I  am  sure,  when  I  am  far 

away, 
There  's   surf  upon  the  beach  or  else  my  little 

waves  at  play. 


[37] 


THE  'DRAGON-FLY 

FLITTER,  flitter,  Darning-needle!  Who 's  afraid 
of  you, 

Though  you  are  so  thin  and  sharp,  so  steely-bright 
and  blue, 

Though  you  come  and  go  so  quickly  with  a  buzz 
ing  noise, 

Quite  as  though  you  meant  to  worry  timid  girls 
and  boys. 

Flitter,  flitter,  Darning-needle!  Oh,  I  know  you 
are 

Only  hunting  flies  for  supper,  hunting  near  and 
far- 

For  I  don't  believe  the  gardener  when  he  says  he 
fears 

That  a  Darning-needle  sometimes  sews  up  chil 
dren's  ears! 


THE  CA7B  BY  TH£  SEA 

AMONG  the  great  rocks  at  the  end  of  the  beach 
There  is  a  great  cave  that  I  never  can  reach, 
Nor  should  any  boy  who  is  smaller  than  I 
Climb  up,  as  I  do,  to  look  over  and  spy 
The  tide  flowing  in  or  the  tide  flowing  out, 
And  crabs  in  the  kelp,  perhaps,  scuttling  about! 

For  once  I  discovered,  deep  down  in  a  place 
Near  the  mouth  of  the  cave,  what  I  thought  was 
a  face 


[  39  ] 


Looking  up  through  the  water,  and  watched  it  to 

know 

If  it  moved  or  the  tide  only  made  it  seem  so. 
But  the  waving  of  hair  I  was  sure  I  had  seen  — 
At  least  if  the  hair  of  a  mermaid  is  green. 


[40] 


SNOW  i&^rtiE  £/rr 

,  winter,  here  again ! 
Soon  you  '11  rage  with  might  and  main ! 
Soon  the  flurries  of  the  snow 
Whirling  through  the  streets  will  go, 
Or,  perhaps,  the  livelong  night 
Down  will  come  the  flakes  of  white 
Straight  and  softly  everywhere 
Through  the  cold  and  quiet  air, 
Covering  all  the  silent  street 
Smoothly  with  a  spotless  sheet. 

Then,  alas,  will  people  come 
In  and  out  of  house  and  home — • 
People,  horses,  autos,  all 
Trampling  down  the  white  snow-fall, 
Men  to  shovel  it  all  day, 
Carts  to  carry  it  away. 

Oh,  if  we  were  flakes  of  snow, 
I  would  beg  the  wind  to  blow 
Far  across  the  river,  far, 
Where  the  hills  and  valleys  are, 
Where,  beyond  the  towns  and  homes, 
Never  any  person  comes. 


There  the  sparkling  whiteness  may 
Lie  unspoiled  for  many  a  day, 
Only  patterned  by  the  track 
Of  a  rabbit  scurrying  back 
To  his  burrow,  or  a  bear 
Hunting  near  his  hidden  lair — 
Sparkling,  shining,  till  the  sun 
Wakes  the  green  things  one  by  one, 
And  the  snow-flakes  melt  to  be 
Springtime  drink  for  flower  and  tree. 


[4*  ] 


c/f  SAD  FANCY 

SUPPOSE  Columbus  had  not  sailed  the  sea! 
Then  all  the  grandfathers  of  you  and  me 
In  foreign  countries  would  have  had  to  stay, 
Instead  of  setting  forth  to  drive  away 
The  Indians  first,  the  British  later  on, 
And  change  King  George  for  General  Wash 
ington. 

And  you  and  I,  of  course,  would  have  been  born 
In  some  strange  place  abroad  to  mope  and  mourn, 
To  have  no  country  of  our  own  but  be 
Just  English,  Dutch,  or  Irish;  never  see 
The  flying  Stars  and  Stripes,  and  take  no  trips 
To  Europe  ever  in  the  big  steamships. 


[43   ] 


T#£  INDIANS 

say  corn-stalks  piled  together, 
Drying  in  the  autumn  weather; 
/  say  Indians,  many  a  row, 
Where  the  corn-stalks  used  to  grow 
Leaves  and  tassels  changed  to  be 
Blankets,  feathers,  plain  to  see. 

Indian  chieftains  seated  round, 
Cold  and  ragged,  on  the  ground, 
Rustling,  talking —  never  a  one 
Sees  me  creeping  with  my  gun, 
As  they  crept  when  't  was  their  joy 
Our  forefathers  to  destroy. 


Maybe  —  who  can  tell  us  now?  — 
As  he  walked  behind  his  plough 
In  this  very  field,  a  dart 
Pierced  a  pale-face  to  the  heart, 
Or  a  captured  child  was  borne, 
Shrieking,  through  the  rows  of  corn. 

Yet  it  seems  a  shame  for  me, 
Now  they  sit  so  mournfully, 
Cold  and  ragged,  bent  and  brown  — 
Shame  for  me  to  shoot  them  down. 
And  suppose,  when  it  was  done, 
Hiawatha  should  be  one ! 


[45] 


'BARBARA'S  rRSASURE-SHIP 

OH,  sailor-men  and  sailor-boys,  far,  far  away  at 

sea, 
Fill  up  your  ship  with  curious  toys  and  foreign 

things  for  me  ! 

Bring  me  a  branch  of  coral  white,  and  shells  all 

pink  inside, 
And  amber  beads  they  say  you  find  on  beaches  at 

low  tide. 

Bring  me  the  scarves  and  golden  shoes  that  Per 
sian  ladies  wear, 

With  emerald  rings,  and  pearls  in  strings  to  twist 
up  in  my  hair; 

A  big  macaw,  all  red  and  blue,  a  small  green  par- 

rakeet  — 
And    do   be  careful,  sailor-boys,  when    stormy 

winds  you  meet ! 

Then  if  you're  tired  of  voyaging  when  at  my  gate 

you  stop, 
I  '11  give  you  new-laid  eggs,  and  cakes  with  icing 

on  the  top. 


[47] 


ROSE  JND  HER 

OFTEN  by  myself  I  play, 
For  my  brother,  strange  to  say, 
Does  not  like  the  things  he  ought 
Or  have  patience  to  be  taught. 

Never  will  he  search  with  me 
For  the  cave  where  we  should  see 
Crooked  little  gnomes  come  out, 
Or  a  faun  to  frisk  about. 

He  will  not  believe  when  I 
Show  where  fairies  danced,  or  try 
Underneath  the  ferns  to  find 
One  that  has  been  left  behind. 

Seldom  will  he  even  be 
With  Columbus  on  the  sea, 
Or  with  a  Crusader  band 
Spurring  to  the  Holy  Land. 

Sleds  he  likes,  and  skates  and  swings, 
Bats  and  balls  and  shooting  things, 
And  he  laughs  whenever  I  say 
He  does  not  know  how  to  play. 


THE  FORSSr  OF  THE 

BETWEEN  the  tasseled  rows  I  run 
And  hide  from  people  and  the  sun; 
They  roof  me  in  and  shut  away 
The  world  I  live  in  every  day. 

They  rustle  like  a  forest  tall 
Where  orchids  grow  and  parrots  call, 
Or  like  the  swish  on  marble  stairs 
Of  silken  skirts  a  princess  wears. 

And  when  I  tire  of  listening,  then 
I  turn  around  and  round  again  — 
So  fast  and  oft,  I  do  not  know 
Which  way  I  came,  which  way  to  go. 

I  cry,  I'm  lost,  Pm  lost!  and  fear 
There  is  some  lurking  danger  near ; 
Swiftly  I  run  and  run,  and  then 
I  reach  the  open  world  again. 

I  love  to  shudder  and  pretend 

A  wilderness  without  an  end, 

And  find  it  only  is  the  corn 

Quite  near  the  house  where  I  was  born. 


[49] 


JOE-PYB  WEED 

I  WONDER  who  Joe  Pye  may  be  that  owns  the 

purple  weed. 
I  've  watched  it  slowly  blossom,  slowly  fade,  and 

go  to  seed; 

But  I  have  had  no  word  or  sign  that  Joe  Pye  ever 

came 
To   see  the  purple  blooming  of  the  plant  that 

bears  his  name. 

'T  is  very  handsome  —  it  may  be  he  stays  away, 

Joe  Pye, 
Because  he  hates  to  have  it  called  a  weed  when 

he  is  by. 

Of  course  the  farmers  scoff  at  it  and  say  it  does 

no  good; 
They  only  care  for  things  that  serve  for  men  or 

beasts  as  food. 

But  if  they  'd  look  at  it  for  once,  would  really 
stop  and  look, 

And  see  it  growing  tall  and  thick  beside  the  hid 
den  brook, 


[  5o] 


With  golden-rod  all  mingled  in  and  wreaths  of 

virgin's-bower, 
Perhaps  they  would  not  laugh  at  me  for  calling 

it  a  flower. 

I  hope,  though,  that  Joe  Pye  may  come  in  blos 
soming-time  next  year, 

For  who  he  is  and  where  he  got  his  plant  I  long 
to  hear. 


Is*  ] 


MART'S  cAPPLS  TREE 

THEY  'VE  cut  it  down  since  I  was  here 
In  the  warm  summer-time  last  year; 
They  've  cut  it  down,  the  apple  tree 
That  really  did  belong  to  me! 

It  did  not  stand,  my  apple  tree, 
In  any  orchard  company, 
But  in  a  garden  large  and  square 
With  pleasant  pathways  everywhere. 

The  paths  are  edged  with  rows  of  box, 
The  birds  come  there  in  busy  flocks, 
And  lovely  flowers  as  summer  passes, 
And  parsley-beds  and  ribbon-grasses. 

Always  this  garden  was  for  me 
The  Garden  of  the  Apple  Tree, 
For  there  its  strong  and  leafy  boughs 
Had  made  for  me  a  pleasure-house. 

High  up  they  held,  yet  not  too  high, 
Hidden  from  every  passing  eye 
In  the  green  shadow  cool  and  sweet, 
A  true  and  comfortable  seat. 


f  5'  1 


One  branch  was  large  to  sit  upon, 
And  then  there  was  a  smaller  one 
That  ran  quite  straight  and  properly 
To  make  a  sofa-back  for  me. 

I  loved  to  climb  into  my  seat, 
And  sit  at  ease  and  swing  my  feet, 
And  there  my  knitting-work  I  took, 
A  story-paper,  or  a  book. 

I  loved  to  sit  there  and  to  find 
Strange  fancies  coming  to  my  mind, 
As  though  the  whispering  leaves  might  be 
Repeating  fairy  poetry. 

It  was  my  apple  tree,  my  own, 
Because  I  knew,  and  I  alone, 
That  it  had  shaped  itself  to  be 
A  playhouse  for  a  child  like  me. 

The  men  that  killed  it  could  not  know 
I  loved  my  tree  so  much — but  oh! 
Why  did  they  cut  it  down?  And  how, 
How  can  I  do  without  it  now? 


TH8  SICK  CHILD 

l 
T/ie  Aquarium 

I  DO  not  care  to  see  the  toys 
A  child  when  it  is  well  enjoys, 
Or  speak  when  mother  stoops  to  say 
I  'm  better  now  than  yesterday. 

It  tires  me  even  when  she  talks; 
I  wonder  how  she  stands  and  walks; 
/  cannot  turn  myself  in  bed, 
Or  use  my  spoon,  or  lift  my  head. 

1 5*] 


The  pinks  and  roses  that  she  brings 
Please  me  to  look  at,  but  the  things 
That  do  the  most  to  comfort  me 
My  father  put  where  I  can  see. 

There  in  the  water,  through  the  glass, 
I  watch  the  goldfish  float  and  pass 
Among  the  plants  and  creeping  snails, 
And  gently  move  their  golden  tails. 

They  float,  they  swim,  here  by  my  bed, 
But  make  no  sound  to  pain  my  head, 
The  golden  fish  that  silently 
Wave  the  green  plants  to  comfort  me. 

II 
getting  Well 

LONG  weeks  I  lived  in  mother's  bed, 
Or  on  the  sofa,  but  to-day, 
-  Stand  up,  my  girl,"  the  doctor  said, 
"And  walk  a  little  way." 

As  slowly  then  I  moved  around, 

I  felt  astonishingly  tall, 

And  in  the  glass  a  face  I  found 

Too  white  for  mine  and  small. 

[  55  ] 


Then,  holding  by  the  window-sill, 
How  great  the  change  that  met  my  eye! 
Such  thick  green  leaves  when  I  fell  ill, 
And  now  so  few  and  dry. 

As  far  as  to  the  library 
To-morrow  I  may  walk,  and  there 
Wait  for  my  dinner  pleasantly 
In  father's  easy  chair. 


WHAT  KATHSRINB  WISHED 

WHAT  are  we  going  to  be 

When  we  get  to  be  women  and  men- 
Jennie  and  Florence  and  me, 

Johnnie  and  Peter  and  Ben  ? 

It  is  a  game  to  play, 

But  I  hardly  can  play  with  the  rest, 
For  they  try  to  persuade  me  to  say 

I  wish  for  what  they  think  the  best. 


[57] 


/  wish  only  to  look 

Like  Juno  or  Helen  of  Troy, 
Write  a  wonderful  poetry-book, 

And  have  five  little  girls  and  a  boy. 


WHAT  NORA  IMAGINED 

IN  from  the  sea  to  the  bay 

(When  I  am  not  a  child  any  more) 
A  ship  may  come  sailing  some  day 

As  I  sit  on  a  rock  by  the  shore. 

In  from  the  ship  to  the  beach 
The  sailors  will  come  in  a  boat, 

And  finding  me  there  within  reach, 
Will  capture  and  bear  me  afloat. 

Out  of  the  harbor's  mouth 

I  shall  sail  at  the  turn  of  the  tide, 

Off  to  the  isles  of  the  south 

With  a  pirate  chief  as  his  bride! 


THE 

SOLDIERS  march,  a  band  of  music  plays  its  finest 

tune, 
But  there  's  something  better  still  that  must  be 

coming  soon. 

Now  I  hear  it,  far  away  yet  —  hear  it  as  it  comes 
Nearer,  nearer,  up  the  street — the  sound  of  fifes 
and  drums! 

Oh,  there  is  no  other  noise  that 's  half  so  brave 

and  gay, 
Or  that  makes  your  heart  beat  so  and  takes  your 

breath  away. 

Drum,  you  drummers!  Fife,  you  fifers!  How  I 

wish  I  could 
March  behind  you  into  battle  as  a  soldier  should! 

Drum,  you  drummers!  Roll  your  thunder, loud 

and  louder  still! 
Fife,  you  fifers !  Fife  and  whistle,  high  and  clear 

and  shrill! 

If  I  hardly  keep  the  tears  back,  't  is  not  only  I — 
Any  one  must  laugh  and  shout  or  he  would  have 
to  cry! 

[59] 


OH,  the  rustle  of  the  dead  leaves, 
Yellow,  russet,  brown,  and  red  leaves! 
All  night  long  the  storm-wind  blew  them, 
Shook  them  from  the  trees  to  strew  them 
Where  the  children's  feet  can  go 
Tramping,  trampling,  to  and  fro. 

Oh,  the  wind,  the  stormy  fellow! 

How  he  blew  them,  brown  and  yellow, 

Red  and  russet,  hither,  thither, 

Like  the  flakes  in  wintry  weather, 
So  we  might  tramp  to  and  fro 
In  the  leaves  as  in  the  snow. 

Forward  march,  then!  Follow,  follow! 
March  along  here  in  the  hollow, 
Where  the  piles  knee-deep  are  lying, 
Kick  and  toss  and  send  them  flying. 
Hear  them  crackle  as  we  go, 
Tramping,  trampling,  to  and  fro ! 


[6,   ] 


SPRINg  10^  rHE  CITY 

OH,  the  spring  comes  very  quickly  when  it  really 

means  to  come, 
And  we  soon  forget  the  long  delays  that  were  so 

wearisome. 

The  gusty  rains,  the  dusty  winds,  have  blown 

themselves  away; 
The  breeze  is  soft  as  summer-time  and  warmer 

every  day; 

And  the  flags  that  top  the  houses  all  along  the 
Avenue 

Seem  twice  as  gay  because  the  sky  is  such  a  shin 
ing  blue. 

Out  in  the  Park  the  winter-buds,  that  safe  on 

every  bough 
Kept  from  the  cold  the  baby  leaves,  are  bursting 

open  now. 

The  maple-trees  and  elms  are  hung  with  fringes 

green  or  red  — 
The  tasseled  flowers  that  come  before  the  leaves 

have  time  to  spread. 


There  are  bushes  golden  yellow,  there  are  hushes 

frothy  white, 
That  were  only  budding  yesterday  but  blossomed 

overnight. 

And  by  hundreds  and  by  thousands  dandelions 

will  star  the  grass, 
Till  the  scent  of  the  first  cutting  fills  the  sunshine 

as  we  pass. 


THS  ALL-TEAT^CROP 

IT  is  springtime  in  the  Park  and  a  million  flowers 

are  out ; 
There  are  tulips,  there  are  daffodils,  and  pansies 

all  about. 

But  however  bright  the  blossoming  and  sweet  the 

green  may  be, 
All  round  the  year  the  babies  are  the  sweetest 

things  I  see. 


In  their  go-carts  and  their  basket-wagons  all  the 

paths  they  fill, 
Unless  it 's  really  raining  or  is  snowing  harder 

still. 

They  are  so  very  many,  it  seems  strange  who  owns 

them  all, 
Yet  sometimes  there  's  a  family,  like  ours,  with 

none  at  all. 

O  mother,  do  you  know  the  plan,  and  think  it 

would  succeed, 
To  coax  the  friendly  stork  who  brings  the  babies 

people  need? 

With  his  present  in  a  kerchief,  safely  knotted  in 

his  bill, 
Will  he  fly  to  any  window  where  there  's  sugar  on 

the  sill? 


THS  SURF 

A  STORM,  a  storm,  has  blown  at  sea ! 
The  waves  it  made  roll  up  to  me 
And  break  upon  the  rocks  and  sand, 
Making  a  splendid  shouting  noise, 
As  to  the  green  and  quiet  land 
They  call  with  loud  and  louder  voice, 
A  storm,  a  storm  far  out  at  sea, 
A  storm,  a  storm,  a  storm  at  s*a! 

All  that  my  sailor  friends  have  said 

Who  live  and  travel  on  the  sea, 

All  that  in  books  I  ever  read, 

Or  learned  in  my  geography, 

Of  ships  and  ports  and  foreign  men, 

Of  distant  lands  and  wondrous  sights, 

Of  pirates  and  of  old  sea-fights, 

The  surf  repeats  it  all  again 

And  cries,  A  storm  far  out  at  sea, 

A  storm,  a  storm,  a  storm  at  sea  / 


[  66] 


HELENA'S 

SOME  day  I  mean  to  write  a  book, 
And  never  let  a  person  look 
At  any  page  or  word  or  line 
Till  it  is  printed  clear  and  fine, 
Till  in  the  bookstore  it  is  piled, 
And  parents  buy  it  for  their  child. 

It  shall  be  made  of  verses  all, 
Of  different  poems,  large  and  small, 
And  no  one  shall  the  writing  see 
Because  I  want  my  book  to  be 
My  own  entirely,  from  my  heart. 
There  I  shall  rhyme  and  set  apart, 
In  poetry-pictures,  this  and  that 
That  children  love  or  wonder  at, 
That  children  do,  or  want  to  do, 
Believe,  or  wish  was  coming  true. 

Oh,  many  are  the  books  that  hold 
Beautiful  poems  that  were  told 
By  men  and  women,  so  that  we 
May  read  and  happy  children  be. 
But  only  one  on  all  our  shelves, 
I  think,  tells  of  the  children's  selves, 
From  end  to  end,  in  such  a  way 
IVe  might  have  written  it  at  our  play. 

[67] 


I  mean  the  one,  the  "Garden"  one, 
Of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

This  is  so  very  true  and  good, 

I  'm  almost  sure  I  never  should 

Have  thought  to  write  another  one, 

If  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

Had  put  in  all  the  things  I  see 

And  all  the  thoughts  that  come  to  me. 

When  he  was  young  he  was  a  boy, 

And  there  are  things  that  girls  enjoy, 

Things  that  they  think  or  like  to  play, 

That  the  "Garden"  children  do  not  say. 

I  cannot  try  to  do  it  now  — 
I  must  be  older  to  know  how 
To  choose  a  word,  to  match  a  rhyme, 
To  make  the  lines  keep  perfect  time. 
But  of  my  book  in  bed  at  night 
I  think,  and  plan  to  make  it  right, 
And  in  my  memory  store  away 
Important  things  I  want  to  say. 

O  Robert  Louis  Stevenson, 
If,  when  my  little  book  is  done, 
There  is  a  child  of  any  age, 
And  anywhere,  who  finds  a  page 

[  68  ] 


That  gives  such  pleasure  as  you  give 

Wherever  little  children  live, 

I  shall  be  proud,  and  grateful  too. 

I  shall  confess  I  copied  you, 

And  wrote  (perhaps  not  quite  so  well) 

Only  what  you  forgot  to  tell. 


J  THUNDER-STORM  JT  NIQHT 

LIGHTNING  —  off  there  in  the  south  where 
through  the  darkness  show 

Shapes  of  distant  mountain-tops  against  the  sud 
den  glow. 

Thunder — very  far  away  but  echoing  back  and 

forth, 
Nearer,  nearer  coming  as  the  clouds  are  rolling 

north. 

Wind — how  shrill  it  whistles  as  it  pulls  the  clouds 
along, 

[70] 


Pulls  and  whistles,  shrieks  and  sings  a  loud  and 
piping  song. 

Rain  —  how  suddenly  it  falls,  with  what  a  dash 
ing  sound, 

Like  a  solid  thing,  almost,  that  shatters  on  the 
ground. 

Lightning  in  the  wind  and  rain  —  right  here  a 

blinding  flash, 
Thunder  in  the  rain  and  wind — just  overhead 

a  crash. 

Let  them  rage,  all  four  of  them,  and  roar  around 

the  skies; 
Soon  the  morning  comes  and  then  a  shining  sun 

will  rise! 


{MORNING,  AFTET^rHB  STORM 

MORE  diamonds  than  a  king  has  seen 
Hang  on  a  million  blades  of  grass  ; 
Like  fairy-land  the  woods  are  green 
Beneath  the  blue  and  shining  sky, 

Where  pass  and  pass 
The  white  clouds  softly  by. 


Loud,  loud  and  merry  is  the  brook 
That  only  murmured  yesterday; 
The  maples  have  a  glittering  look, 
And  all  the  dark  old  pines  are  bright, 

On  every  spray 
A  jewel-drop  of  light. 

I  love  the  lovely  world  that  wakes 
Out  of  the  storm  so  smilingly, 
And  yet  I  sorrow  for  their  sakes  — 
The  nest  that  perished  in  the  rain, 

The  broken  tree, 
The  field  of  beaten  grain. 


FAR,  far,  and  high  and  clear, 

Oh,  I  could  hear 

An  angel  sing  as  he  began  — 

As  he,  the  man 

Who  played  to  us,  first  touched  the  strings 

And  moved  the  bow  that  says  so  many  things. 

Far  in  the  sky 

The  angel  sang,  so  softly  and  so  high, 

So  faintly  clear, 

I  held  my  breath  to  hear. 


Then  soon 

The  music  grew  to  be  a  little  plashing  tune 

Like  rain  that  dropped 

On  summer  leaves.  And  when  it  stopped  — 

The  little  plashing  tune 

Like  gentle  rain  upon  the  leaves  in  June  — 

It  was  because 

The  violin  had  other  things  to  tell 

That,  while  it  spoke,  I  understood  as  well. 

Now  I  forget,  excepting  that  there  was 

An  ending  when 

The  angel  came  to  sing  again  — 

Oh,  very  soft  and  high  — 

A  sweet  and  far-away  good-bye. 


[73] 


THE  LigHTHOUSS 

IN  at  my  open  window  a  star, 
More  bold  and  bright  than  the  planets  are, 
Shines  to  my  pillow  —  now  dimly  shows 
Through  the  cloudy  white  as  the  curtain  blows 
In  the  breath  of  the  wind,  now  darts  its  gold 
Straight  as  a  spear  and  as  bright  and  bold. 

On  the  long  coast  north,  on  the  long  coast  south, 
At  the  harbor's  heart  and  the  harbor's  mouth, 
Guarding  the  edge  of  the  pine-grown  land, 
Warning  away  from  the  spits  of  sand, 
A  star  of  the  reef  or  an  island  star  — 
Many  the  brothers  of  my  light  are. 

The  Lord  did  not  station  them  there  to  show 
The  ships  of  the  sea  where  their  pathways  go. 
With  a  loving  heart  and  a  patient  hand, 
It  was  men  that  lifted  them  up  to  stand 
Darting  their  beams  to  the  ocean's  rim, 
To  watch  for  the  sailor  and  counsel  him. 

But  the  Lord  gives  thanks  to  the  men,  I  am  sure, 
Who  thought  of  the  stars  that  can  make  secure 
The  path  of  His  children  at  sea  in  the  night, 
Who  builded  their  towers  and  kindled  their 
light  - 

[  74] 


Hundreds  of  others  and  my  great  star, 
As  steady  and  sure  as  the  planets  are! 


e/f  SUMMER  T>REAM 

IN  the  night  I  left  my  bed 

To  follow  where  the  moonbeams  led; 

And  the  night-wind  and  the  moon 

They  led  me  on,  and  showed  me  soon 
In  the  woods  a  hidden  nook, 
While  they  whispered,  Look,  oh,  look! 

Fairies,  fairies  dancing  there 
With  waving  hands  and  blowing  hair, 
Scarves  of  cobweb,  swords  of  grass  — 
I  saw  them  meet  and  turn  and  pass 
In  a  ring  of  firefly  light, 
Fairy  folk  of  the  summer  night. 

Then  the  moonbeams  led  and  led, 
And,  hearing  what  the  night-wind  said, 
Left  I  looked,  and  looked  to  right, 
And  saw  another  wondrous  sight, 

Seldom  seen  and  seldom  told  — 
Pygmies,  kobolds,  digging  gold. 

[  75  ] 


And  once  more  the  night-wind  cried, 
Oh,  harken  well  on  every  side ! 
And  the  forest  seemed  to  be 
All  full  of  things  I  could  not  see, 

Calling,  singing,  Come,  oh,  come! 

As  the  moonbeams  led  me  home. 


THE  ENT>  OF  THS  SUMMED 

\VHAT  whispers,  whispers,  in  the  hollow 
Where  the  leaning  birch  tree  grows? 
What  bids  me  come,  what  bids  me  follow, 
When  the  wind  at  twilight  blows? 

Not  the  wind  and  not  the  tree — 
Something  else  is  calling  me. 

I  hear  it  when  the  rain  is  dropping 

On  the  bushes;  in  the  stream 

It  murmurs,  murmurs  without  stopping, 

Like  the  river  of  a  dream ; 

And  I  seem  to  hear  it  sing 
Wherever  birds  are  on  the  wing. 

It  must  be  Summer,  calling,  calling  ! 
For  the  cold  is  drawing  near, 


[  76] 


The  frost  is  biting,  leaves  are  falling, 
So  she  calls  for  me  to  hear: 

/  am  flying  south,  and  you, 
If  you  will,  come  too,  come  too! 


[77] 


THE  HUNTET^OF  77/S  SKIES 

THERE  he  shines,  Orion,  splendid  in  the  night, 
With  the  two  great  stars  that  make  his  shoul 
ders  bright, 

One  that  's  like  a  buckle  worn  upon  his  knee, 
And  a  glittering  sword-belt  where  the  stars  are 
three. 

Hunter  is  Orion,  huntress  is  the  moon, 

But  he  hunts  all  winter,  she  grows  weary  soon. 

When   she  comes   again   and  waxes   brave  and 

bright, 
She  will  find  Orion  has  not  missed  a  night. 

[78  ] 


Once,  late  in  the  summer,  from  my  bed  I  crept 
Wondering  what    the  world  was  doing  while  I 

slept, 

And  I  saw  the  Hunter  rising  from  the  sea, 
Shoulder-stars  and  belt  and  star  upon  his  knee. 

Up  from  the  sea-water  slow  I  watched  him  come; 
All  the  other  stars  moved  on  to  give  him  room; 
The  great  Bull  he  hunted  kept  a  space  ahead, 
And  the  Dog  Star  followed  where  the  Hunter  led. 

Then  on  the  sea-water,  smooth  and  almost  black, 
Trembled  here  and  there  a  tiny  golden  track; 
That  was  where  Orion  sprinkled  down  the  light 
Of  the  stars  he  carried,  climbing  up  the  night. 

When  at  last  I  turned  and  stole  back  to  my  bed, 
Low  down  in  the  east  the  sky  was  growing  red. 
Oh,  you  great  Orion !  your  chase  that  night  was 

done  — 
Even  the  great  Hunter  flees  before  the  sun  ! 


[79] 


TLATS  HIS  P1PBS 

O//,  I  know,  I  knoiv  the  way 
That,  when  'Pan  begins  to  play, 
Trooping  come  from  far  and  near 
All  the  things  that  want  to  hear! 


Birches  twinkle  by  the  river, 
Swallows  flash  on  slanted  wing, 

Thrushes,  with  their  hearts  a-quiver, 
Shut  their  throats  and  dare  not  sing. 

Wild-fowl  come  with  hurried  flocking 
Where  the  wild  god  pipeth  shrill, 

Sedges,  in  the  river  rocking, 
To  the  rapid  motion  thrill. 

Tiny  furry  creatures  linger, 

Stretch  round  eyes  and  stare  to  see 

How  the  honeysuckle's  finger 
Marks  the  measure  daintily. 

Lazy  moths  forget  their  sleeping, 
Lizards  glitter  as  they  run  — 

Dancing,  flying,  fluttering,  creeping, 
Come  the  wild  folk  every  one. 

[  80] 


From  the  fields,  the  woods,  the  hollows, 
Rocky  clefts,  and  river's  brim, 

Every  little  live  thing  follows 
Horned  Pan  who  pipes  to  him. 


THS  UNSEE^THINQS 

ALONG  the  banks  of  the  smooth  brown  brooks, 
Where  thebirches  lean  and  thegrape-vine  swings, 
By  the  river  pools,  in  the  forest  nooks, 

On  the  garden  paths  at  night, 

On  the  sea-beach  at  twilight, 
I  have  looked,  I  have  longed,  for  the   Unseen 
Things: 

For  the  nymph  of  the  hills  and  the  water-sprite, 
For  the  faun  and  the  dryad  of  woodland  ways, 
For  the  tiny  ones  met  in  a  fairy  rite — 
All  the  sweet  wild  folk  of  old, 
That  we  know  from  stories  told 
By  the  poets  and  singers  of  far-off  days. 

In  their  own  old  time  they  were  not  unseen  — 
The  hunter,  the  shepherd,  the  wandering  boy, 
Might  chance  on  the  places  where  they  had  been 

At  rest  in  the  shade  by  day, 

In  the  dawn  or  dusk  at  play, 
And  know  them  by  signs  of  an  innocent  joy: 

By  the  trodden  grass,  by  a  withering  wreath 

Of  white  narcissus,  an  unstrung  bow, 

Or  a  flute,  perhaps,  that  was  dropped  beneath 


A  laurel  bush  carelessly, 
Or  the  broken  twigs  of  a  tree 
Where  a  bather  had  swung  to  the  stream  below. 

And  once  in  a  lifetime,  perchance,  in  a  place 
All  stillness  and  beauty  and  strangeness,  he  met 
With  one  of  the  Wonderful  face  to  face — 
With  one  who  had  strayed  away 
From  the  sport  of  the  rest  or  lay, 
Though  they  had  awakened,  in  slumber  yet. 

Oh,  surely  to-day  they  are  not  all  gone; 

They  are  few,  they  are  shy,  but  are  not  all  dead ; 

In  the  wild-wood  I  shall  have  glimpse  of  one, 

If  only  a  flutter  of  white 

Far  off  in  the  dim  green  light, 
And  the  flying  hair  of  a  golden  head  ! 

THE  SND 


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